Remember Me
by Wirral Bagpuss
Summary: Dr Watson is attacked and loses his memory. Can Holmes help him and will Watson's memory return? Submitted as part of the new LJ community Watson's Woes challenge. A joint collab between myself and Medcat.


_**Here is a story that was submitted for Challenge 12 of the excellent LJ community Watsons Woes. Co authored by my very good friend Medcat who is a fantastic writer. Please do go and look at her stories, they are brilliant. Anyway without further ado here is the story! Usual Disclaimer applies. We dont own Holmes. Watson or 221B. But if we got invited by Mrs Hudson for a cup of tea we would'nt turn her down! ;)**_

**Remember Me**

_"Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us"_

_Oscar Wilde_

It was a cold autumnal Monday evening in October 1886. The rain poured down relentlessly, blurring the vision of Doctor John Watson as he walked home from his surgery. He wiped the rain away from tired eyes and turned up the collar of his coat. Exhausted, Watson had forgotten his umbrella and had been caught in the downpour that had threatened for much of the afternoon. Watson stopped to rub his leg as the inclement weather made it ache. He grimaced and walked on, keeping a steady hand on his walking cane. The flickering oil lamps dimly lit the pavement in front of him_. It will be good to see Holmes __again,_ thought Watson. He had not seen Holmes for the past two days and had missed his friend.

Without warning, Watson was set upon by two ruffians who grabbed his medical bag. Watson fought back, trying to defend himself using his cane, but it was to no avail and he was pushed back into a nearby alley. The contents of his medical bag scattered all over the alley as it was finally wrestled out of Watson's hand. He tried to struggle but the thugs were far too heavy for him; his attackers pounded him, hitting him in the stomach several times. Then one of them landed a heavy blow to Watson's head, sending him reeling backwards and crashing to the ground, landing in a dirty straw-filled puddle. Watson groaned as the beating began to take its toll and his head started throbbing. He tried to lift a hand to his aching head but a heavy boot stamped upon his arm, causing him to cry out in pain. One of the thieves took hold of Watson by the collar and tore his jacket off, emptying its pockets, and then proceeded to empty his trouser pockets as well.

"Whhattt do you waaant..?" asked Watson, his speech slurred, voice shaking unsteadily.

His attackers stopped their searching and looked at Watson and then at each other for a moment.

"Ahh, he's seen us, 'ee will give our description away, Alf..." said one of the attackers worriedly.

Alf turned to his partner and gave a toothless grin, replying menacingly,

"Ha Mike! This toff won't talk," said the thug who proceeded to smash a heavy boot into the Doctor's side and then to pick up a nearby plank of discarded wood. Watson looked in horror and raised his arms to protect himself, but it was too late. He felt a powerful crack at the back of his head and dropped back, landing upon the cobbled ground as darkness claimed him.

"You've killed him, Alf!" exclaimed Mike worriedly.

"So what if I have? Dead men don't tell tales," replied Alf coldly.

The thieves grabbed their ill-gotten gains and fled, leaving Watson alone in the alley. The rain lashed down, soaking the unconscious Doctor to the bone, and a trickle of blood flowed down his forehead, gradually turning the puddle of water in which Watson lay red.

The rain had stopped by the time Watson awoke. Coughing, he struggled to get up and shivered as the soaked shirt clung tightly to his damp frame. He ached all over and winced as movement sent a sharp stabbing pain in his side. As he levered himself to his feet, he swayed unsteadily and staggered to a nearby wall for support, closing his eyes in an attempt to shut out the pounding of his head and to prevent his entire world from spinning. Staggering forward, Watson tripped over his medical bag. He looked down blankly at it; it looked familiar but yet was not. He shook his head, trying to battle the pain, and frowned. He could not remember anything.

_Where am I? Who am I? _Watson asked himself.

He staggered out of the alleyway and continued down the street. He groaned as the pain of even moving became too much for him. He clutched his side and walked on, falteringly and unsteadily like some drunken party reveller. After a while, he looked up and saw the street around him. _I have been here before, haven't I? What is happening to me? Need to remember... _He walked on down the street, stumbling, and began to fall.

Sherlock Holmes was in a black mood. He had not had a case worth investigating for a week. There were requests, but none that captured his interest. He needed something that would stimulate his mind. Holmes looked up at the mantelpiece clock. Watson was late. He should have been back two hours ago. _This_ _is not like Watson. Perhaps he has been delayed with a patient?_ Holmes decided to wait another half hour before he would go in search of Watson. He picked up his violin and moved to the window, scraping on the instrument, but could not focus_. Where _is_ Watson? He knew I had those tickets for the concert tonight! _Holmes looked out of the window at Baker Street. In the dim light outside, he saw a man staggering down the street, and his heart chilled as it took no great skill in the art of deduction to recognise who it was.

"Watson!" cried out Holmes in horror, as he threw down his violin and ran down the seventeen steps and out into the street. He saw Watson beginning to fall, and with a few long strides he was at his friend's side within moments, in time to catch him before he hit the pavement.

Trying to fight the encroaching darkness, Watson stared into worried grey eyes belonging to a tall imposing gentleman. He had heard a name being called, but did not recognise it as being his own.

"I have you, Watson, everything will be all right," soothed Holmes, as his hand came away with the blood of Watson's head wound.

Watson weakly gripped Holmes's sleeve and looked questioningly at him. Hot lances of pain pierced his side and he gasped as he tried to speak, fighting the darkness that now overwhelmed him. Watson croaked tiredly, "Who are you..." He gasped once more as the pain became too much for him and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

Holmes stared down at his injured friend and colleague in shock, as he realised Watson was seriously hurt. He gently lifted his friend into his arms and carried him back to the flat, calling for a worried Mrs Hudson to dispatch for Dr Oakshott with immediate haste. He did not stop to see his landlady hurriedly wrap her shawl round her and hasten down the street calling for a cab which would take her to Dr Oakshott's surgery.

Holmes carried Watson to his bedroom and gently laid him on the bed. He loosened what was left of Watson's shirt and his knowledge of anatomy was enough to tell him that Watson had sustained at least two broken ribs. He clasped Watson's hand in his and held it tightly. He had been shocked by Watson's inability to recognise him. Holmes knew more than anyone what it was like to lose one's mind. He stared grimly at Watson and a cold anger took over him. He would catch those responsible for this monstrosity.

The first thing Dr Watson felt on awakening was the warmth and then the clean linen sheets underneath him and the softness of an afghan rug on top of him. He raised his hand to his head, finding it heavily bandaged, and groaned. He opened his eyes and then closed them tightly as he found even the not very bright gas light overpowering. He tried again slowly on his second attempt, succeeding at keeping his eyes open this time, and stared at a man at his side, tall, imposing, whose face was lined with concern. The man smiled at him.

"It is good to see you awake, Watson, you had us worried for a while." Holmes moved to carefully adjust the pillows behind Watson to allow him to sit up more comfortably.

Watson looked tiredly at Holmes. _Do I know this man? "Watson"? Is that my name? Where am I? How did I get here? _The effort of trying to absorb all this new information and to make sense of it all became too much for his injured head, and he grimaced with the strain of trying to remember.

Holmes saw this and laid a gentle hand on Watson's arm. He knew what Watson had been thinking and sought to reassure him.

"It's all right, old chap, you are perfectly safe. My name is Holmes, and you are in Baker Street. Earlier this evening, you were attacked by thieves who have left you with three broken ribs and a severe concussion, which has affected your memory. You don't remember much of anything; do you, my dear friend?"

Watson shook his head in the negative and then regretted doing so as the room began to spin. He waited for the spinning to stop and looked at Holmes questioningly.

"You called me 'Watson'...is that my name?" asked Watson, with much doubt in his voice.

"Yes, you are Dr John Watson, and you are my friend and colleague," responded Holmes with a reassuring smile.

Watson studied Holmes intently and tried to remember something, _anything_, that would trigger a memory, but all Watson got was a wall of nothingness. He moaned in weariness and frustration. Holmes, seeing Watson's obvious exhaustion, got up to leave, telling Watson to rest. Watson called out to Holmes, his voice shaky and uncertain.

"My memory _will_ come back, won't it? I don't think I could stand not remembering anything…you say you are my friend and colleague. I don't remember anything. I feel so alone..." Watson buried his head in his hands as the frustration of not remembering anything became too much for him.

Holmes felt the lump rising in his throat; reining in his own emotions, he returned to Watson's side and held him tightly as he felt Watson leaning against his shoulder shaking as his tears flowed.

"My dear Watson, you will never be alone. Don't ever think that. Dr Oakshott has reassured me that your memory will return; it will probably take a few days, maybe even a week. But it _will _return. Once that concussion of yours clears, you will find things begin to come back to you. Rest now and I will see you later."

Holmes dimmed the gas lights as Watson lay back against the pillows. He closed his eyes and allowed Morpheus to reclaim him and relieve him of his pain. Holmes looked on fondly at his Boswell and quietly walked out into the sitting room, leaving the bedroom door cracked. He went over to the mantelpiece, took some tobacco from the Persian slipper, stuffed his clay pipe and lit it. As the smoke began to waft around the sitting room, Holmes closed his eyes in concentration. Helping Watson regain his memory would be a three-pipe problem, but he was determined to solve it. He _had to_, for both their sakes.

Holmes was halfway through the second pipe when he recalled something that had slipped his mind in his worry over Watson—the perpetrators of this had to be caught. Dropping his pipe and noticing that it was already early morning, he hurriedly went in search of Mrs Hudson. Finding her in the kitchen, he explained the situation to her and she readily agreed to watch over Watson while Holmes went to investigate.

Holmes started by retracing Watson's usual route. Peering into side alleys, he noticed signs of struggle in the fourth alley he looked at—the mud was trampled and there were various items scattered about. He came closer, being careful not to trample on footprints. "What have we here?" he muttered to himself as he searched the area. "Ah, trampled bandages, a broken bottle of antiseptic...from Watson's medical bag, no doubt...bag itself is gone—the thieves grabbed it, I imagine...let me see now...two men, both rather heavyset, one taller than the other...the taller one walks with a marked limp and is the leader of the two...and it was someone else who made off with the medical bag after the thieves had fled..."

His face drawn and haggard from lack of sleep, Holmes walked into Scotland Yard, striding directly toward Lestrade's office.

"Lestrade. I find myself in need of _your_ assistance."

"Most certainly, Mr Holmes. Glad to be of service—turnaround is fair play. What can I help you with?"

"Watson was attacked by two thugs last night, Lestrade."

"Good heavens...is he all right?"

"He will be," said Holmes grimly, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Now, to business, Lestrade."

"Of course, Mr Holmes. You want us to track down the two ruffians?"

"Astute as always, Lestrade," said Holmes with a twinkle in his eyes to negate the harshness of his words. Turning serious again, he resumed, "I have been able to deduce a few things from the scene of the crime, although, unfortunately, the rain and the elapsed time destroyed much of the evidence. "

"However, I can tell you this much. There were two of them, one is taller than the other, is the leader of the two, and walks with a limp. This is their usual _modus operandi_, I think—setting upon an unsuspecting quarry and forcing him or her into a deserted alley..."

"Hmm...we've received reports of such in the last few months, I believe...We shall step up our surveillance."

"Thank you very much, Lestrade. And now, I must be getting back home."

"Take care, Mr Holmes. And give my regards to Doctor Watson."

"I shall. Keep me apprised of any developments, will you?"

"Certainly."

Nodding to Lestrade, Holmes hurried out of the building and towards Baker Street.

Thanking Mrs Hudson, Holmes resumed his vigil at Watson's bedside and, about half an hour later, was pleased to hear a faintly murmured,

"Holmes?"

"Watson. Thank God...do you remember me?"

"Yes...yes, we've been lodging together for the last 5 years...you are an independent consulting detective—_the only one in the world_," said Watson with a faint smile.

Holmes choked down a hysterical laugh of relief, pressing Watson's hand.

"Holmes? Are you all right?"

"No. No, I am most certainly not."

"What is the matter?" Watson inquired anxiously.

"Watson...have I not told you before to bring your revolver if you insist upon walking through the poor area of the city?"

Watson bowed his head in embarrassment. "So you have...and I've paid for not listening to you, haven't I? You've been proven right once again..." he trailed off with a grimace.

"I would have much rather been wrong," said Holmes bitterly. "But never mind that right now; you should rest...you still look exhausted."

"Yes...my apologies..." said Watson, letting his eyes drift shut.

"No need for that; just rest."

"No, wait, there is something else I must see to..." murmured Watson, obviously exhausted but struggling to remain awake. "Ah! My practice..."

"Have no concerns on that score, Watson. I apprised Anstruther of the situation, and he was more than willing to fill in for you."

"Thank you, Holmes," whispered Watson, falling asleep within seconds.

It was not until the following day that Watson felt well enough to risk getting up. With the help of Holmes, on whom he leant heavily, Watson walked slowly to the settee and lay back on it, his head still pounding after even this small effort.

"D'you need anything, my dear fellow?" Holmes inquired solicitously.

"Yes, a headache powder. Would you get my bag? Oh..." Watson trailed off as he remembered what happened to his bag on the previous day.

"Do not worry, Watson," Holmes hastened to reassure him. "You'd given me a packet of the headache powder last time I was complaining of a headache, and I never took it; it should be in my desk somewhere." Holmes commenced energetically rummaging through his desk. Watson could not restrain a smile. A few minutes later, Holmes emerged triumphant, brandishing the packet. "Here you are, and now, a glass of water...there." Holmes handed the glass to Watson, who lost no time in downing its contents, lying back against the pillows as soon as he finished.

"That's much better, thank you, Holmes," Watson responded to his friend's unspoken question. Holmes was still watching Watson intently. He was pleased to note that Watson had lost the vacant look which had so disconcerted Holmes the day before. And his colour was looking much better; he had lost some of that sickly pallor that had been so noticeable.

Watson continued steadily improving over the next few days, until on Saturday he mentioned to Holmes that he intended returning to his practice on the coming Monday, as they sat in their customary armchairs after luncheon—Holmes reading the agony columns and Watson perusing the later copy of the _Lancet_.

"I am certainly glad to hear it, Watson. Are you sure that you are fit enough?"

"Yes, I think so; I shall only work a half-day for the first week or two."

"A sensible precaution," smiled Holmes. "Speaking of work, I have just recalled that I've an errand to run. Will you be all right if I leave you for a few hours?"

"Of course, go on."

Holmes returned early in the evening, bearing a fair-sized paper-wrapped package under his arm.

"Was that your errand?" Watson inquired with the curiosity of one who has been cooped up indoors for most of the week.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, it was," responded Holmes with a mischievous smile.

"You look like the cat who ate a canary, Holmes. Am I permitted to inquire as to the contents of your parcel?"

"Oh, it is a gift for someone. As a matter of fact, I'd appreciate your opinion about it."

"Certainly, would be glad to," said Watson as he cut the twine and unwrapped the brown paper. "Oh, it's a doctor's bag. Very handsome indeed, and fully stocked...and even monogrammed. The person this item is intended for, his initials are JHW?"

"Yes, my dear Watson. You approve of the gift, then?"

Watson appeared to be at a loss for words. "Oh, Holmes, you did not have to..."

"But I wanted to...truly; does it meet with your approval?" Holmes looked uncharacteristically hesitant.

"Oh, Holmes, how could it not? Thank you. I shall treasure it..." Holmes squirmed uncomfortably.

"..And put it to good use—you alone should provide me with enough opportunities to do so," Watson added mischievously.

Laughing, Holmes got up from his chair and walked over to the sitting room window, surveying Baker Street. Watson smiled and opened his new medical bag to look over its contents more thoroughly. To his surprise, he found a new journal packed inside. It was a red leather Moleskine journal, bound with a strap to keep the pages together. He opened it and saw the inscription inside the front cover:

"_Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us"_

_Oscar Wilde_

And I will always carry memories of my dear friend and Boswell

S. Holmes

Watson let out a breath that he had not realised he was holding and was about to speak to Holmes, but Holmes had picked up his Stradivarius and the rich soft sound of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata being played began to fill the room. Watson smiled and allowed the music to wash over him. Whatever may happen in the future, he knew that he would always remember that he had a friend who would never allow the memories of their friendship to fade away. It was a bond that could never be broken. As Watson's eyes grew heavier and he began to drift off, he thought of what Beethoven himself had once said

"_Never shall I forget the days I spent with you. Continue to be my friend, as you will always find me yours."  
_

When Holmes stopped playing and turned to Watson, he saw that Watson was asleep with a trace of a smile on his face. Looking at Watson fondly, Holmes laid his violin down, sat back in his chair looking at the fire, and contemplated. The past few days had been difficult. Watson had been lost but had been found. _I would be truly lost without my Boswell,_ thought Holmes. As the flames flickered, he sat back and allowed Morpheus to take him too. As the last of the afternoon's rays melted away and the velvet cover of night took over, the room remained silent except for the sound of unspoken friendship that would echo until the end of time.

* * *

_**Hope you liked it! All reviews and comments most welcomed! :)**_


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